Black and Blue
by Em Mindelan
Summary: Vaughn helps Syd pick up the pieces, and in the process exorcises some of his own demons. SVL, S3, angst, romance, hurtcomfort.
1. Prologue and Chapter One

Hello everyone!  
  
Only I would be stupid enough to start another WIP when I have two fics with no ends in sight ["Memory" and "Pretense", in case you're counting. ]  
  
But enjoy this anyway, because it might even be somewhat fluffy in parts. Maybe.   
  
TITLE: Black and Blue  
RATING: PG-13  
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. All JJ's. Lyrics quoted are from "Black and Blue", by Counting Crows, and are not mine.  
TIMELINE: Mid-Season 3.  
SUMMARY: Vaughn helps Syd pick up the pieces, and in the process exorcises some of his own demons. S/V/L, S3, angst, romance, hurt/comfort.  
SUGGESTED SOUNDTRACK: "Black and Blue", Counting Crows, "Here Comes the Flood", Peter Gabriel, "Hallelujah", Jeff Buckley, "Deliver Me", Sarah Brightman, "Give You Back", Vertical Horizon, "Monsters", Something for Kate, "Elevation", U2, "Electrical Storm", U2.  
AUTHOR's NOTES: Lyrics in this section are from "Black and Blue" by Counting Crows. This will be a Vaughn POV fic, although the prologue is in third person.   
  
_Prologue_  
  
It was supposed to be a routine mission. In and out. Go to Prague. Meet with Sloane. Come home. She'd carried out the same mission countless times before in the six months since her Lazarus-like return from the dead, without a single mistake. They had no reason to suspect that this mission would be any different to any of the others.  
  
But somewhere along the way, Sydney Bristow disappeared. And somewhere along the way, she ended up in one of Sloane's still intact hideouts, Sark and Sloane's prisoner.  
  
And somewhere along the way she was broken.  
  
They found her, of course. They always did, didn't they, even if it was just in the nick of time normally? She's no stranger to seeing rescuers come in through the door of a torture chamber with guns ablaze just as the bad guys started to torture her.  
  
But this time they were too late. This time they'd started to torture her before they got there to rescue her. This time they _finished_ torturing her before they rescued her.  
  
  
_Chapter One_  
  
"Mike, we've got her. We're about 5 minutes out from the hospital. But….but she's pretty beaten up, okay?"  
  
"I'm on my way."  
  
*  
  
The first thing that goes through your mind at the sight of her, arms wrapped around her father and Eric, unable to stand by herself?  
  
_She looks like she's been through a war. _  
  
The second thing?  
  
_Sydohgodsydwherehaveyoubeenloveyouloveyouloveyouwherehaveyoubeenwantneedholdyou…_  
  
The third thing?  
  
_What have I done?_  
  
*  
  
You twist your ring, around, and around and around, and around, and around.  
  
And you take it off.  
  
And you put it in your pocket.  
  
She doesn't need to see it, be reminded of everything that's changed between you two.   
  
Not now. Not when she's this badly hurt.  
  
And you remember how when you'd heard they'd pulled her out, all thoughts of Lauren, all thoughts of your marriage, all thoughts of _anything_ except her had flown straight out the window.   
  
[_This is more important than your marriage right now._]  
  
*  
  
She's been badly hurt before.  
  
You've seen her bruises before, kissed them better, traced the delicate lines of her scars with your fingers, over and over again until you think that you've memorized every inch of the little roads and highways that run all over her.  
  
You've seen her nursing broken ribs, torn shoulder muscles, concussions….every single injury under the face of the sun, it seems sometimes.  
  
But you don't think you've ever seen her like this.  
  
Her face is a mess of black and blue bruises, and there are cuts all over her face, some of them raw and bleeding, others of them older and improperly healed.  
  
But it's not so much the physical injuries that scare you.  
  
It's the emptiness in her eyes, the nothingness that lurks behind her normally expressive irises.  
  
There is _nothing_ there.  
  
No pain. No fear. No relief. No emotion at all.  
  
And that's what scares you the most.  
  
She looks like brittle crystalline glass that's been worked for too long, and all you can wonder is whether or not a breath would shatter her into too many pieces to ever be picked up again.  
  
[_Fading everything to black & blue   
You look a lot like you'd shatter   
In the blink of an eye_]  
  
*  
  
She tries to tell you that she's fine. She tries to tell you that she's all right. She tries to tell you that she's going to be okay.  
  
[_But you keep sailing right on through_]  
  
But you know better. Because you know the signs. You've looked into a mirror and had eyes as empty as hers stare back at you.  
  
[_You just look a lot like me_]  
  
You know she's not all right. That she's not going to be all right. Not unless she opens up. Not unless she starts to talk about what happened with Sark and Sloane.  
  
*  
  
She won't talk to you. She won't talk to Jack. And she _definitely_ won't talk to Barnett.  
  
But you still sit silently at her side every day, in and out, as she stares at the ceiling of her government hospital room.  
  
It's bland, colourless. People die in rooms like this everyday. And you're afraid that she's dying in this one right now.  
  
Not of her injuries, no. The doctors have said that she'll be fine, that her bruises will heal in time. She's too strong to die from physical pain, you think.   
  
No, it's not the visible scars and bruises and cuts that will kill her. It's the ones that no one can see, the ones that she's spent her entire life covering up, the invisible ones that scar her head and her heart that will kill her.  
  
You can't even begin to describe the room that you're in, the room that's suffocating her so slowly.  
  
It is devoid of any emotion, any happiness, any joy, any fear or pain. Devoid of _anything_.  
  
There are no paintings or pictures of any sort on the once-cream walls now made grey by years of use. Nor are there are windows to allow the patient a glimpse at the world that goes on without them. It is a self-contained world, a little bubble of desperation and fear and worry existing on its own and affected by nothing else.  
  
It is lit only by a faintly buzzing fluorescent light that casts the entire room in a harsh slightly green tinged light.  
  
She lies there comatose on the bed wearing a government-issued hospital gown, lying in a government-issue bed with government-issue sheets. She stares at the ceiling, at the cream tiles, barely breathing.  
  
But there is nothing else that she can do in this hellhole of a place.  
  
A person could die in here from the sheer emptiness of it all.  
  
You wonder whether or not you should speak, whether or not you should disturb her in her rest, her silence, her peace. You open your mouth, and then shut it again, wondering what you should say, how you should say it – whether you should say it at all.  
  
But it's too hard to see her lying there, somewhere between life and death, caught in some sort of grey purgatory. And so you speak, opting for humour in the hope that it might wake her from whatever nightmare she is reliving.   
  
"I gave up counting after about 5,000 tiles," you offer lamely, trying to provoke some sort of response, something that will let you know that she's still alive in there under all her pain.   
  
She snorts quietly, almost under her breath, and quickly looks away, trying to hide a smile.  
  
"Why are you doing this?"  
  
"Why am I counting the ceiling tiles?"  
  
"You know what I mean, Vaughn."  
  
Yes, you know what she means. You know what she means all too well.  
  
She wants to know why you're here.  
  
Why you're not with your wife.  
  
But you don't know how to answer that question yet.  
  
"Because I care," you say softly, knowing that it was the only thing that you could say, even though it says nothing and she won't believe you and she wants to know more than _that_.  
  
"Where's Lauren?"  
  
"I'm not sure. Home, maybe."  
  
You sit in silence for a little longer, watching her watch the ceiling restlessly.  
  
"Vaughn?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Could you- could you get me a glass of water? They're just over on that sink there."  
  
"Sure."  
  
You stand and walk over the counter with the glass, washing out the old water and pouring in some fresh water straight from the tap.  
  
You walk back over the side of her bed and offer it to her. She takes it with visible effort, her arm trembling slightly as she sips from it gently.   
  
"Thanks. I needed that."  
  
She offers it back to you, and as her hand meets yours, as they wrap around the glass, fingers entwining, meeting, _burning_, she asks you the one question you had hoped she'd never ask….and the one question you wanted her to ask.  
  
"Vaughn….where's your ring?"  
  
You freeze.  
  
_Do you lie to her, when she's in this state?_  
  
Or do you tell her the truth, that ever since she's come back nothing's been quite the same with your wife, that you feel like you're just going through the motions of being married, that the emotion, the love you once felt just isn't there anymore?  
  
But where do you go from the truth?  
  
_The truth changes everything._  
  
You pull out your ring from your pocket, and you look at it, wondering how one simple band of metal and the ton of emotional baggage it represents could cause so much pain.  
  
"Can…can I?" she says, offering you her hand shakily. You stare at it for a few seconds before you drop it onto her flattened palm.  
  
She fingers it lightly, tracing its contours, its grooves and ridges. She's fascinated by it, and you watch her intently as she plays with it, rolling it back and forth between her thumb and index finger.  
  
And you can't help thinking that she should have worn the mate to your ring.  
  
That in a perfect world none of this would ever have happened.  
  
But you don't live in a perfect world, do you?  
  
She gives you back the ring, and sighs softly.  
  
You go back to your seat, realizing with a jolt as you sit down that you'd never actually answered her question.  
  
You actually sigh as you see your wife through the clear window of Syd's room.  
  
And you can only wonder when you started to feel disappointed when you saw your wife.  
  
*  
  
"Michael, what on earth do you think you're doing here?"  
  
You sigh inwardly, realizing that this is one of those moods again.  
  
You try to appease her, to calm her down, hoping that it might postpone another temper tantrum for awhile.  
  
"I'm sitting with my _friend_ while she gets better!"  
  
"Damnit, we've spoken about this before, Mike!"  
  
"We've spoken about _what_, Lauren?"  
  
"Your relationship with Sydney!"  
  
"Sydney and I are _friends_!"  
  
"You weren't always "friends", though, were you?" Her voice has taken on a dangerous tone, and you know you'd better try to appease her now before you're powerless to do so.  
  
"Look, a lot has changed since then."   
  
_Not enough_, you think with another sigh, wishing, as you had a thousand times since her return, that you no longer felt anything for Sydney Bristow.  
  
"Look Michael, you have missions to go on. You have a job to do. You have a _wife_. You can't just go haring off every time your ex-girlfriend gets herself hurt!"  
  
"Lauren! I am being her _friend_!"  
  
"Let Eric be her "friend", Michael. Or is this more important than your marriage?" Her voice is like ice now, her accent only emphasizing the anger in her voice.  
  
How do you answer this question? How do you tell your wife that yes, this is more important than your marriage?  
  
"Look, I don't have time for this, Lauren. Syd's doctors are coming back soon, and I'd like to be there when they tell her how long she'll be out of action for."  
  
You begin to walk away, but you're caught when she calls back to you, "Is it?"  
  
"For now?"  
  
She only nods, and for an instant you can see the hurt on her face as she sees your longing to return to Syd.   
  
"I don't know. Maybe." You tell her the truth, because, truth be told, she deserves it. And because she didn't sign up for this when you asked her to marry you.   
  
She nods, the incredible pain in her eyes evident. She only just manages to choke out, "I'm going to Washington, to meet with some NSC directors. I might not be back for a few days. See you when I get back?"  
  
And all you can do is nod in return.   
  
[_there is no way that this ends well. there's no way that this ends without pain for at least one of you. and right now all you are, all three of you together with your pain and your love…all you are is three broken people wondering about loss and love_]  
  
*  
  
"Vaughn?" Her voice is croaky, hoarse, weaker than normal, her tone questioning, hopeful, almost pleading. She lifts her head off her pillow, the effort even that small movement requires showing on her face.  
  
She needs you, you know. And you need her too, even though your wounds aren't as deep as hers, your scars smaller and better camouflaged.  
  
"Yeah, Syd?"   
  
She sinks back into her pillow, sighing quietly. "You're here…I was so afraid," she swallows, "So afraid you'd left me."  
  
"Never," you vow quietly, sitting back at her side and taking her outstretched hand.  
  
You wonder what you're doing, falling back into the same old rhythms with her, _allyrockbestfriendtruthamongthelies_. It's too risky, too dangerous…but ultimately too hard to resist.  
  
"Ah, Mr. Vaughn. It's nice to see you again. Can I be correct in assuming that you'll be helping Miss Bristow in her recovery?" Your little reverie is disturbed by the entrance of Dr. Phillips, a middle-aged man that you've worked with here before. He'd be about the same age as Jack Bristow, you think, except where Jack is glares and arctic stares, Phillips is all smiles and bushy eyebrows.  
  
"Yes," you say firmly, cutting off any protests that she might have.  
  
"Very well then! Now, while Miss Bristow's injuries are quite severe, we do expect her to make a full recovery. However, she'll need a lot of rest and relaxation. I'm actually recommending three months paid leave, as well as a month's holiday leave at one of the agencies' overseas properties."  
  
"All right," she croaks from her bed, taking part in the conversation for the first time.  
  
"Mr. Vaughn, I assume you'll be accompanying Miss Bristow overseas to help in her recovery?"  
  
"Yes," you say firmly, before Sydney can reply herself. You can't leave her alone now. Not when she's like this.  
  
Lauren will understand, you think to yourself, knowing that it's a lie. But for some reason you don't really care.  
  
Because Sydney's well-being has always been the most important thing in your life, and that's one thing that hasn't changed in the two years that she's been gone.  
  
"Great!" Phillips says, again snapping you out of your reverie. "You can leave whenever you're ready, although I'd recommend that we get Miss Bristow out of this environment as soon as possible. A good dose of fresh air and rest and relaxation is the best possible medicine for you right now, Sydney."  
  
Lauren might well kill you for accepting the doctor's offer to accompany Sydney on an overseas holidays, but right now you could really care less, you know. Because her well being has always been the most important thing to you, and that's one thing that the ring on your finger hasn't changed.  
  
And even if that wasn't the case, the look on Sydney's face, the look of gratitude and relief and overwhelming love and pain and torment and need is almost enough to make you forget you have a wife.  
  
You're going with her. Whether Lauren likes it or not.   
  
Because you'll always be her ally. And because she needs you now, more than ever before.  
  
*  
  
  
  
  
Well....more? Or should I never touch this fic ever again?   
  
And obviously our good Dr. Phillips is either a diehard S/V shipper or didn't get the memo about Vaughn's marriage.   
  
I love reviews, so please make me happy! Oh, and I also thought that you people might like a fic with a plot for a change, so this is for all of you who were getting sick of my angsty!S3!married!Vaughn rants. Plus, I even threw in some imagery! Aren't you proud?   
  
Em 


	2. Chapter Two

DISCLAIMER: Quotes from "Finding Nemo" are not mine, exactly like the movie itself is not mine, rather sadly...   
  
Thanks so much for all the reviews!  
  
*  
  
_Chapter Two_  
  
The first thing she tells you, the first thing that lets you know that she's still alive, is "I don't want to go anywhere I've been before."  
  
You understand her reluctance to go anywhere she's been before – because, after all, you have ghosts lurking in the most inexplicable places as well. You've never told Lauren about what Santa Barbara means to you, and you don't think you ever will, just like you'll never take her to Trattoria di Nardi.  
  
"All right," you say to her. "Where are we going?"  
  
"Australia," she says slowly. "Australia," she says again, repeating the name like she likes the taste of it.   
  
"Okay." And you don't ask her why you're going there, because you know that all she needs right now is answers, not more questions. And because after all, you've always wanted to see Australia, haven't you?  
  
*  
  
You fly out on a commercial flight, and for once, thankfully, the Agency's sprung for business class for you both.  
  
You watch _Finding Nemo_ on the flight, since it's just been re-released before the premiere of its sequel, and it's the first time she laughs since her return. You spend the rest of the flight trying to make her laugh again by imitating Dory, with more than a little success. She can't stop giggling at the quotes you still remember from the first time you saw the movie, sick with grief while looking after some of your cousins in the long months in France after her death. But there are two quotes you don't share with her, two lines that had burned itself into the hard drive of your brain the moment you'd heard it, lines that still haunt you to this day.   
  
_"And-and I look at you, and I...and I'm home! Please...I don't want that to go away. I don't want to forget."  
  
"I'm sorry, Dory. But I...do."_  
  
And when the scene plays out before your eyes on the little screens in front of you both, it's all you can do to fix your eyes straight ahead and try not to look at Sydney, knowing that she's doing the same. It's too close to home, too harsh a reminder of her forgotten years and your time spent drinking your way steadily into oblivion, too reminiscent of a nightmare you had when she told you that you were home, and you believed her, because _ohgod_ you wanted to believe her, wanted to believe that the twisted up mess that you'd dug yourself into had never happened, that Lauren wasn't your wife and that Sydney was home, because she was home for you. And that's why the plane seat next to her feels like more natural a place for you to be than the home that you've spent nearly a year building with Lauren. Because she was there, and that's really all that matters anymore.  
  
She eventually falls asleep, and you tuck a blanket around her shoulders before you join her in rest.  
  
And as you fall asleep next to her like you've dreamt about doing for two years, albeit in adjoining airplane seats, you can't help but realise that you've never slept this well next to your wife – never felt quite as safe as you do as you lie beside her now.  
  
And when she wakes up and smiles at you, her dimples broad, it's hard for you to remember why you married your wife at all.  
  
*  
  
You walk through Customs easily, even with the increased security that you're so accustomed to even four years after 9/11. Sydney's warmer than you remember, although it's December, after all, during the Southern Hemisphere summer, so you suppose it's not that surprising that you've walked into a city in the grips of a heat wave, even by LA standards.  
  
And then you realise that none of the clothes that either of you have brought will be suitable for this sort of weather, that you had packed for muggy, overcast, humid LA-in-winter weather, not this sunny-bright-glaringly hot Australian summer that you've being confronted by.  
  
So you go shopping, which is much easier said than done, because even depressed-battered-bruised Sydney is Sydney, the worst shop-a-holic you've ever met, even worse than one of your ex-girlfriends in college, a woman who couldn't go shopping for _anything_ without coming home with at least three new outfits. No, Sydney was unquestionably the worst shop-a-holic that you'd ever met, not because she bought so much but because she bought so little and looked at so much. You'd gone shopping with her maybe three times _before_, but three times was more than enough to last you a lifetime, you'd thought. She'd tried on _everything_ in the entire mall, and then bought only two t-shirts and a skirt.  
  
It had been an exasperating day, but it had still been one of the best of your life, you know – because it had been spent with her.  
  
Today she's a bit better, you think thankfully, as she selects t-shirts, skirts and shorts more suitable for the weather.   
  
"Get a jacket as well, Syd," you say quietly in her ear.  
  
She jumps, but you're more surprised than she is. The Sydney Bristow you knew would _never_ have let you get that close and still have been surprised by your presence. "Vaughn, it's over 100 degrees already, and it's only 10am."  
  
"It'll get cold at night. Believe me, you'll need the jacket," you reply matter of factly.  
  
She grudgingly picks out a blue fleece jacket, and adds it to the rapidly accumulating pile of clothes.  
  
"Oh, and flannel pyjamas."  
  
"How do you know I haven't already _packed_ flannel pyjamas?" she asks you with a slight smile in her voice.  
  
"Because I packed your bags, that are why," you reply with a small grin, enjoying the banter.  
  
"Okay, okay," she says, picking out a pair of flannel pyjamas with ducks on them.  
  
"Ducks, Syd, ducks?" you ask with amusement.  
  
"Do you have a problem with duck pyjamas, Mr. Vaughn?" she asks coquettishly, and you wonder where the battered woman you'd comforted in her hospital bed only the day before has disappeared to.  
  
"No, not at all, Syd," you say, muttering just loud enough for her to hear, "If you're 12 years old, that is…"  
  
"Vaughn!" she punches you lightly on the shoulder, and you cover the place where she hit you with one hand, recoiling back as if in pain.   
  
"Hey, that hurt!"   
  
Her face falls, and suddenly you know where the battered woman has gone. Her voice quietens again, and her head drops. "Sorry," she whispers meekly.  
  
You change the subject quickly, redirecting her away from the woman's section of the large department store you were in, and into the men's. _Hey, you need clothes as well, after all…_  
  
You both end up with quite a heap of clothes, and you're just thankful that the Agency's bankrolling this trip for the both of you, although you've got no idea how Jack managed to wangle that one.  
  
He hadn't tried to stop you going with her, to some surprise, but instead almost encouraged you to accompany Syd. Whether it was out of guilt that he couldn't get away himself, or just some sort of sixth spy sense, you've still got no idea, but you're just glad he hadn't tried to put up a fight when he'd heard about it.  
  
As a matter of fact, all Jack had really said was, "Take care of her, Agent Vaughn."  
  
"Would I do anything else?" you had asked him, still slightly sour after your conversation with Lauren, and walked in the other direction.  
  
*  
  
You end up in a small beach house north of Sydney, a fact that makes you grin just a little when she's not looking, just because the fact that you're with a woman named Sydney in a place called Sydney is more than a little amusing to you, even though you're really not sure why. It's a beautiful place, and you idly wonder as you first tour the place why the government owns such a stunning place, until you realise that surely if you weren't there, some senior agent and his family would be in your place, there on their summer vacation.  
  
"I had no idea the Agency owned anything so beautiful," she sighs, fingering the edge of a delicate wood frame containing a picture of a magnificent blue whale rising up out of the water.  
  
"Neither did I."   
  
"Do you need some help carrying those bags in, Syd?" you ask her, seeing the look of strain on her face as she struggles with her bag.  
  
"Could you?" she asks in return, offering one of her bags to you.  
"Oof! This is heavy, Syd! What'd you pack, rocks? Do you want to take a look at the bedrooms?"  
  
And then you realise what you've just implied, and you stutter slightly, "I mean, to decide who sleeps where?"  
  
"All right," she says, a slight grin on her face from your misspeaking.  
  
You follow her up the rather bizarrely orange coloured metal and wood staircase which, while a strange colour for stairs to be painted, works surprisingly well with the Balinese style house.  
  
You walk upstairs into a large, airy room partitioned only by white sliding doors shutting off a bathroom with a deep bathtub and open windows, and a small living room with a large stereo system. There's only one bedroom up here, although you know that there are two more downstairs and another one what the real estate agent called a "granny flat" when you picked up the key to the house.   
  
"Do you mind if I had this room, Vaughn?" she asks you quietly, sounding almost afraid that you'd object.  
  
"No – I was just about to suggest it, actually, Syd."  
  
You deposit her bag on the king-sized bed lying against the furthest wall of the room, a wall of windows next to it, showing a large backyard with the largest collection of palm trees that you've ever seen, as well as what looks like a cubby house at the back of the yard.   
  
She stands at the window, watching the trees move in the wind and a golden retriever run from the neighbours' yard into your own. You can tell that she's listening to the children playing basketball in the neighbours' backyard, because that's what you're listening to.  
  
This place is _normal_, you realise with a shock. It's nowhere special, nowhere notorious, nowhere dangerous. The CIA doesn't exist here. Protocol doesn't exist here. _Danger_ doesn't exist here.  
  
It's just you and her.  
  
And suddenly you think that you'd be in less danger if it was you up against dozens of armed assailants with a gun in your hand and her at your back.  
  
Because you can fight armed gunmen better than you can fight your own heart.  
  
*  
  
  
Well....there you go.   
  
As for Chapter 3, I forsee a walk along the beach, a visit to one of my favourite restaurants in the world, and a nightmare. Sound interested? Well, tune in next time for Chapter Three of _Black and Blue_.... 

Thanks so much for all the reviews! You're all wonderful! Please review again!

J  
Em


	3. Chapter Three

Hey, look, new chapter! I have no idea how that happened!   
  
And before we get to the chapter, I'd just like to say -   
  
HAPPY BIRTHDAY JU!  
  
I hope you have a wonderful birthday.   
  
**Dedication**: To **juju**, for her birthday. Enjoy the chapter, sweetheart!   
  
**Disclaimer**: Still not mine, still JJ's, don't sue, I have no money...songs used are "What's Wrong", by Alex Lloyd, and "Answer", by Sarah McLachlan.  
  
_Chapter Three_  
  
You slip out of her bedroom quietly, not wanting to disturb her reverie, and walk down the stairs as quietly as possible.  
  
You choose the smaller downstairs bedroom, a beautiful, airy room with a double bed in the centre and a large desk in the corner. It's painted cream, although the wall behind the bed is a sky blue colour instead. The wall facing the foot of the bed is clear glass, with French doors leading out onto a balcony overlooking the garden.  
  
It's peaceful and empty and calm and everything you need to try and calm the raging whirlwind of emotions wrestling for supremacy inside your body. You've only been near her for less than two days, and already you're a mess. Already you're forgetting who you are now, _what_ you are now…forgetting the ring on your finger and the wife in your home.  
  
You have no idea how you're going to last a month here, living with her, breathing the same air she breathes, day in, day out, every hourminute_second_ spent with her. Being near her has always been torture for you. But there was a time you almost savoured the torture, the endless meetings and briefings and missions, knowing that you would go home with her at night and she would soothe your pain with kisses and caresses in her bed.  
  
Now you've just come to see it as torture, like you did for the first eighteen months after you met her, eighteen months of twice-daily cold showers and endless hours of reading manuals on protocol to remind yourself what exactly would happen if you gave into your emotions and kissed her against the chain link fence in the warehouse like you did every night in your fantasies – although, to be perfectly honest, you remember, that wasn't all you two did in your fantasies. You'd never blushed at remembering dirty dreams before you'd met her, but some of the things that you'd done with her in your dreams _still_ embarrassed you [_almost as much as they excited you._]  
  
You sit on the bed, head in your hands, breathing in and out, trying to get your heartbeat back under control, to stem the adrenaline rush that has always come from being near her.   
  
You idly wonder exactly how you're supposed to be helping her recover from psychological trauma when the scars that her death left upon your life are still so vivid that you still crave the burning sensation of alcohol snaking its way down your throat, so real that you still remember every word of every conversation you had with her in the apartment that she'd never actually visited….so painful that you'd abandoned a job that you'd loved because it hurt too much to see the CIA insignia and remember that it was because of that symbol that she'd died.  
  
But when you remember the haunted look in her eyes those first few hours in the hospital, the empty stares of incomprehension in her bed, the battered and weak woman that she'd been in the shopping mall….then you think that maybe your wounds aren't quite so bad, after all, not in comparison to hers, at any rate.  
  
[_Saving souls is a good thing to do,  
But it's hopeless when you're falling yourself._]  
  
*  
  
You shower slowly, letting the almost cold water swamp you, hoping in vain that it will cool your need for her, that it will make you feel the wedding ring on your finger means anything compared to what you will always feel for her….but it doesn't. And so you step out of the bathroom, almost envying the freedom of the two magnificent dolphins immortalized in stained-glass in the bathroom's windows. _Love must be a much simpler thing for animals_, you think wryly.  
  
"Vaughn?" You hear her voice as you hear her steps down the stairs, clear yet cautious, unsure of what you two are doing here, in the delicate dance that you dance together, each trying desperately to stay in step and avoid stepping on toes.  
  
"Yeah, what is it, Syd?" you reply, sticking your upper body out around the door of the bathroom as you open it, seeing her dressed simply in a denim skirt and white cotton halter top. There's a part of you that says, _isn't she the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?_, but there's a part of you that says, _you're married now, stop thinking about what it would be like to slide that skirt off her…_  
  
She actually blushes at the sight of you with only a towel wrapped around your waist, even though she's seen you in a lot less hundreds of times before.   
  
"Sorry…I thought you were dressed."  
  
"Don't worry about it. You look really nice." [_and you think of a time when it had all seemed so complicated but is now so simple compared to the landmines you're surrounded by now, when you had told her, _"You look really pretty."]   
  
"Thanks. What are we doing for dinner?"  
  
"You can choose…I think there are some takeout menus on the fridge, or I think I saw a thing for a restaurant along the beach if you want to go out…"  
  
"I'm up for it if you are."  
  
"All right. Just let me get changed, okay?"  
  
She blushes again and looks away to the side, a sure sign of embarrassment for her. "Sure."  
  
*  
  
You end up at a small restaurant called _White Sands_, after a slow walk along the beach, past a lagoon that looked just about ready to break its banks and join the sea. It's only small, and you're one of only a few couples there, which you're not all that surprised by, since it's only a Tuesday night. She's only been back since Friday, although it seems now like an eternity ago.  
  
The owners greet you warmly at the door, and ask you whether you'd prefer to eat at one of the tables outside on the pavement, an offer you accept gratefully, because the closer you are to the cool sea breeze rushing off the Pacific Ocean the better. It's way too hot here for you, a lover of all things snow and ice for as long as you can remember.  
  
You're shown to an intimate table on the pavement, and given menus while the waitress bustles off with a promise to return for drinks orders.  
  
"Vaughn…."  
  
"Yeah, Syd?"  
  
"Why did you agree to come with me?"  
  
It's a good question, you know, but not one that you can immediately answer. You bend your head slightly and breathe out.  
  
"Because I wasn't going to let you come down here in the state you were in alone."  
  
"My father could've come, Eric could've come…._Marshall_ could've come instead of you."  
  
"You'd spend a month with _Marshall_ rather than me? Syd, I'm hurt."  
  
She laughs at this, but suddenly turns more serious again. "Vaughn, I'm serious. You have a _wife_! What does she think about you doing this?"  
  
"She understands," you say, knowing that she doesn't.  
  
"No, she doesn't, Vaughn," she says, her voice catching as she continues, "If it was the other way around….I wouldn't."  
  
_If she was your wife no ex-girlfriend would ever be able to drag you away_, you think with a tinge of bitterness.  
  
"Your" waitress arrives again at that moment, and it is with relief that you both order drinks and meals and start to steer the conversation onto safer topics, because there is no subject more dangerous to the two of you than your wife and your feelings for her.   
  
There's a new coolness in the rather forced conversation you have with her as you eat, much like two adversaries making small talk before battle [two hearts fighting one war]. It's different to the relaxed banter that you'd been enjoying with her on the plane and in the store that morning, different to the jokes and smiles you'd shared on the walk across the beach. And you both know it's because of Lauren.  
  
It's not that you don't love Lauren. Because you do. It's just that what you have with Sydney is so much more than love. It's so much more than any word, so much more than any combination of letters could possibly express, you surely think, not knowing how any combination of brushstrokes on a page could possibly express this curious mix of longing and need and want and heartbreak and a sensation that grips the bottom of your stomach every time you see her in a way that suddenly makes you fifteen years old again. It's desperation and interdependence and loyalty and faith and hope and truth and lies and needing her more than you need air, even though you don't know why.  
  
*  
You walk back across the beach in silence, each of you enjoying the peace and quiet of the open skies above you and the sand under your feet below you.  
  
When you return to the house, she returns up the stairs, kissing you on the cheek lightly, oh so lightly, and then whispering into your ear, "Thank you…for everything."  
  
Her touch burns you like it always has and it's all you can do to just watch her walk up the stairs, wondering listlessly whether or not she knows she has this power over you, and whether or not you have a similar power over her.  
  
You're tired, and you know at least some of your fatigue must be jetlag, but you can't sleep. You roll from side to side, wondering why she must always be the cause of your insomnia, either from her presence, keeping you awake with kisses and caresses or because of her absence, keeping you awake with worry and fear. You're not entirely sure of the cause of this particular bout of insomnia, but you suspect it's a mixture of both, her small smiles and your memories of past kisses mixing in equal parts with worry and anxiety over her visible and invisible scars.  
  
And then you hear a scream, _her_ scream, and the cause of your insomnia is no longer the most pressing issue on your mind.  
  
You race up the stairs, banging nearly all your toes along the way but not caring, to burst into her room to see her sitting up in bed, flailing her arms around her and whimpering, "Please, no, please…please."  
  
You run to her side, gathering her in your arms like a baby and smoothing her hair. "Ssshh…it's okay, Syd. They're not going to hurt you, okay?"  
  
You're not used to seeing her helpless like this, and truth be told you have no idea how to deal with someone experiencing nightmares like this. But it's her, and so you'll try to help her anyway.  
  
"Vaughn?" she half-gasps, half-moans. "Please, don't leave me again…"  
  
You release her quickly and then pull back the covers on her bed so you can sit with her in your arms. "Sssh, Syd…it's okay."  
  
"Please…please don't go."  
  
"I'm not going to let go, I promise."  
  
She's actually shaking from the intensity of her nightmare, and you wonder exactly what they subjected her to in the ninety-six hours she was missing, and exactly how deep her invisible scars have cut her.  
  
You can't sleep holding her, you know, but somehow you think that you might sleep pretty well later, better than you have since her "death" – or return, for that matter. Because tonight you'll go to sleep knowing that you've helped her in some small way, and you think that maybe that might prevent you from the nightmares that have plagued you since her death. They always start differently, but end up the same way, with you sitting in the ruins of her burnt-out house, head in hands, crying like a baby, and wondering why you couldn't have saved her. Wondering why it had been so important for you to go to the meeting with Kendall, wondering why it had been so important that you had left her there to die without you.  
  
She had given you purpose to your life for so long, given it some sort of meaning again, the same sort of drive that you had once felt because of your patriotism – the same sort of motivation that had been driven out of you by countless hours of paperwork and bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo.  
  
You had defined your life by helping her, protecting her, rescuing her – being there for her.  
  
But you weren't there for her when she needed it, and that was what hurt you the most.  
  
That was what kept you awake at night, tossing and turning beside your wife.  
  
But as you hold Sydney in your arms and watch the sunrise, it's like nothing has changed. She's still your purpose, your drive, your compass. It's hard to want to ever let her go; such is the relief and sense of completeness that washes over you at feeling her in your arms again.  
  
You've needed this for so long. You've needed to feel like she needed you again, needed to feel that you had some sort of purpose in her life, needed to feel like you were her knight in shining armour. You needed to be able to help her, save her, rescue her, even though she's normally in no need of rescuing.  
  
Because rebuilding her now, helping her exorcise her demons, soothing her pain from the nightmares….it helps you. It helps you because it means that you're saving her like you couldn't do two and a half years ago.  
  
And somehow that goes a little way towards silencing your own demons as well.   
  
*  
  
And so you sit there, holding her, until her sobs eventually subside and she falls asleep in your arms, watching the sunrise.  
  
When she wakes, she does so suddenly, and the uncontrolled swing of her arm nearly breaks your nose. "Ooof! Syd, be careful! You could've broken my nose."  
  
"Sorry," she rasps. "Reflexes."  
  
She freezes as she becomes aware of the rather intimate position that you've found yourself in. "Vaughn? What are we doing?"  
  
"Don't worry, Syd….you had a nightmare."  
  
"Vaughn…I can't let you do this! You shouldn't be here!"  
  
"Calm down, Syd. There's no way I'm going anywhere when you're like this. Have you been having nightmares for long?"  
  
"No," she says, turning away from you, and you can tell she's lying through her teeth.   
  
"Sydney, I was not your handler for a year and a half for nothing. I _can_ tell when you're lying to me."  
  
"Ever since I got back."  
  
"From the mission?"  
  
"Yes," she breathes softly.  
  
"Syd, what happened to you then?"  
  
"I don't know, Vaughn," she says, almost whimpering. "I know I was only gone three days…but it seemed like years." She shivers in your arms and tenses up at the memory of whatever torture they'd exposed her to, and you hold her tighter until she recovers.  
  
"Vaughn…._will_ you stay here? With me? Please? I…I need you, more than anything." Her voice is desperate, and you can hear her pain and loneliness and need.   
  
"I told you once that I was your ally, Syd. Nothing's changed. I'll stay with you as long as you need."  
  
And you will, even if it costs you your marriage.  
  
[_Cause I can only tell you what I know  
That I need you in my life  
And when the stars have all burned out  
You'll still be burning so bright  
Cast me gently into morning for the night has been unkind_]  
  
  
_TBC_  
  
Please review! Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty pretty please? Reviews really make a writer's day.   
  
  
Em 


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